


pry the door open again

by LydiaOfNarnia



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 12:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11646990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: Under any other circumstance, he would never do this. Were the situation any different, any better, Joe’s pride would never allow him to stand where he is now, asking something so pathetic.“Please,” he says. “I need a place to stay.”





	pry the door open again

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries Band of Brothers, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

Under any other circumstance, he would never do this. Were the situation any different, any better, Joe’s pride would never allow him to stand where he is now, asking something so pathetic.

“Please,” he says. “I need a place to stay.”

Rain pelts his bare arms, causing him to shiver. It’s freezing, and he’s left without even a coat on his back. California in mid-winter is nowhere near as unforgiving as New York (or, god forbid, fucking Belgium) but Joe still doesn’t want to spend another night on the streets.

He’s been sleeping on benches for a week, and it shows. A layer of scruff roughens his cheeks, the bags under his eyes should be paying him rent, and he reeks like a sewer. He wouldn’t be surprised if Webster refused to let him in his house; hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if Webster slammed the door in his face.

That’s not what he’s doing now, however. Webster is just standing there, gaping at Joe like he’s come back from the dead – which is ridiculous, because it’s not like he missed him or anything. After the war, Webster never wrote Joe, and Joe never wrote him.

But the war is over now. It’s been over for three years, and ever since Joe came home he’s watched his life fall apart piece by piece. Losing his apartment in San Francisco was the last straw; he left the city, and had no plans to stop running until he saw an article in a Santa Monica newspaper written by David Kenyon Webster.

So here he is: soaking wet, chilled to the bone, with nothing but the shirt on his back, standing on Webster’s doorstep.

For as much as Joe has changed, Webster is the same as he remembers – polished, intelligent, and proud. His eyes are the same brilliant blue as Joe remembers, bright as the California sky. He’s still goddamn mouth hanging open.

Thunder crashes overhead, but neither of them wince. After a moment, Joe takes a deep breath. “Could use an answer this year, Web.”

Webster’s mouth closes with a click. “You,” he says, and only manages to speak again after a short pause. “You disappeared. You cut off contact with everyone.”

Joe feels his shoulders droop, and doesn’t have the energy to correct them. It’s true – after the war he was so ready to run from everything he saw and did that he left his friends behind. He stopped talking to anyone, and didn’t remember how to start again. Even when invitations to reunions came, Joe always turned them down.

“I tried to track you down. I went to Bill Guarnere, Babe Heffron, even Major Winters – no one knew where you’d gone.”

Joe hid from everyone. In doing so, he cut himself off from the only people who had a chance at understanding him.

Facing Webster now, he feels the weight of his own cowardice on his head, and it fills him with a sick self-loathing that makes him want to turn around and walk away. Again. (Maybe he’ll always be trying to leave things behind – leaving behind the war, his friends, his life, _Webster.)_

Instead, he bares his teeth and tries not to let a single emotion show through his eyes. “All you need to do is say no,” he mutters. “I don’t need a lecture, Web.”

Webster says nothing. He shakes his head slightly, as if in disbelief.

It’s all Joe needs to see. “That’s fine. I’ll get the hell outta your way.”

He turns around before Webster has the chance to say anything else. Joe is halfway down the steps of his porch before he hears Webster shout out, “Wait!”

He doesn’t turn around, but a hand seizes his shoulder and forces him to. He is spun around to face Webster – wide-eyed, desperate. It takes Joe’s breath away, and it feels like he’s been immersed in ice water. He doesn’t _want_ to pull away; he doesn’t want to leave Webster behind. That terrifies him.

“How –” Webster pauses to breathe again, to collect his thoughts, and his hand loosens on Joe’s shoulder – not a vice grip anymore, but something almost tender. “How badly do you need somewhere to stay?”

Joe meets his eyes without an ounce of shame. “Do this for me,” he tells him, “and I’ll do anything you want.”

He’ll go to reunions. He’ll get a job here. He’ll pay half of Webster’s rent. He’ll take a goddamn shower.

He just can’t stand the idea of leaving Webster behind. He can’t do it.

Webster’s entire expression melts away into something soft, something tender and so unbelievably relieved that it takes Joe’s breath away. “Okay,” he says, and it’s all Joe needs to hear.

He steps into Webster’s home, and for the first time in a very long time, he feels warm.


End file.
